


i'm unforgettable!

by nebulaeous (persimmontree)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Pre-Canon, Spoilers through Season 1, i love you ms sasha james please come back, no this is not a fix-it fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24990940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persimmontree/pseuds/nebulaeous
Summary: five times Sasha was unforgettable and the one time she wasn't
Relationships: Sasha James/Tim Stoker, background Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by this art piece: https://vastfears.tumblr.com/post/615196621239697408/ms-james-if-youre-out-there-this-season-sure

Sasha climbs the stairs to the top floor. At the top, a modest reception desk greets her, as well as a woman whose name card simply delineates her as “Rosie.” The woman does not look up when she approaches, her attention focusing on the screen in front of her; the air is filled with the little clicks and taps as she types steadfastly on her keyboard.

“Hi,” Sasha starts, giving Rosie a small smile, “I have an interview with Mr. Elias Bouchard.”

The receptionist ceases her typing at once, moving her hand to the mouse, and clicks through the files. She narrows her eyes, and then peers at Sasha. Her irises are colored a bright blue.

“Ms. Sasha James?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. Mr. Bouchard’s office is down that hall.” She gestures to her right. “He will meet with you shortly and will be ready once he opens his door to you. Best of luck. He gives rather _thorough_ interviews.”

“I will keep that in mind. Thank you.”

She walks down the hallway, delicately, deliberately. She didn’t like how the click of her heels echoes in the relative silence, the bustling sound of the sprawling libraries fading to distant whispers. There’s a seating area in front of his door, and Sasha settles herself in it, though she could not help but feel unsettled. Perhaps it was her nerves, or the tingling soreness of her feet being crammed into her shoes for too long, but something was in the air.

Did the Institute harbor any ghosts? It would make sense, given its purpose, but that would mean that people have died on its grounds. She couldn’t remember anyone in recent history who had died here. Would this place allow such hypothetical incidents to reach the public eye? She wonders if people had died, would they still be anchored here or would they be free to wander the world, hoping that someone would find that connection that kept them on Earth and sever it? 

Well, she supposes that the only way she would find a definite answer would be to become one herself, but she has nothing planned for the sort. No, she intends to stay, to discover as much as the supernatural as she could before she became part of it.

The creak of a door interrupts her thoughts, and she finds herself looking up at the placid face of her hopefully soon-to-be employer, dressed to his nines.

“Mr. Bouchard,” she states, standing up and shaking his outstretched hand.

“Elias,” he corrects her. He steps aside to let her in first and after she seats herself in the plush armchair, he sits across from her, a vast expanse of darkened wood separating them.

He wastes no time in starting.

“Sasha James,” he drawls, eyes sweeping over her, eliciting a small shiver from her. He splays his hand over her resume. “First class honors at Oxford University for Library Science and Computer Science. Member of several notable honors societies. Interned at the British Library.” He sits back in his chair, folding his hands. “You have quite a reputation. You could be working at any historical institution you wanted. Why here?”

She takes in a deep breath. “The Magnus Institute differs from its other archival counterparts in that not only it stores the unusual, but it actively seeks it out. It’s dynamic; you’re not brooding over history, over stories that have been told countless of times. These are new stories, and – and I want to be one of the recorders, document them for the future, connect the dots and see what eldritch picture they may form.” The words she is saying are falling faster and faster from her tongue. “I haven’t experienced anything supernatural yet but, but I would _like_ to. There has to be something greater than all of us, right?”

When she’s finished, beads of sweat drip from her forehead. Her head is spinning and the words she said are a blur. She doesn’t quite remember what she just said, but she feels lighter somehow.

Elias stares at her for a long time. Sasha’s tempted to say anything to fill the suffocating silence -

“I think we’re finished here.”

Panic rises in her chest; her blood pressure shoots up by a mile. She can’t already be finished. Rosie said that he gives “thorough” interviews, but he only asked her one question. How could he already make a decision already? Her working at _the_ Magnus Institute is supposed to be her culmination of her efforts, of proving her jaded classmates wrong that it did not promulgate lies.

In the nanoseconds it takes her neurons to form these thoughts, she also realizes that she feels more exposed, that she was seen, dissected, the intricacies of her wants and desires laid bare upon the table between them.

“Is that it?” she manages to choke out. 

Elias gives her a small grin. “Yes. Your enthusiasm for our work is apparent and you will most certainly enjoy your time in Artifact Storage. I will contact you soon for further details. I trust that your contact details are still the same?”

“Yes.” A smile splits her lips. She mulls over the name many times: _Artifact Storage._ “I – thank you. Have a good day, Elias.”

She slips outside, her smile growing wider – only for that smile to be immediately replaced by gritting teeth as someone nearly topples her over.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” the person grumbles, smoothing his jacket.

Sasha recovers from the encounter, noticing that the parts where she had physically contacted the man felt damp. She looked at the damp patch on her jacket, and then back at the man. He was utterly soaked, hair darkened by downpour. She had to tilt her chin up slightly to meet him in the eye, a detail that annoys her. Not many people are taller than her.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” she hissed, careful not to raise her voice in case Elias hears her and rethink his offer.

The man answers her question with another question. “Why are you rushing out a door so quickly like a madwoman?”

She does not dignify his question an answer. Instead, she arranges herself properly and walks away, having no time for whatever nonsense he spits out.

“Hey! _Hey!_ I hope we both end up working here so I can get a proper apology from you. Remember my name: Tim ‘I-will-have my revenge’ Stoker! Don’t think I’ll forget about this! I'll find you again.

Sasha does indeed tuck his name into the back of her head, laughing to herself, and hopes that she meets him again as well so she could tell him how much she deserves that apology more than him. She makes a silent promise to him that she won't forget this encounter either. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sasha does not like Artifact Storage but saying that she hates it would be an overstatement.

Every day she sits in that dusty room, lit by tungsten-fueled lights. Objects of every shape-and-size are strewn across the cracked linoleum. Boxes upon boxes are stacked up on each other, towering over her in a dilapidated column. Sasha imagines that they serve as the only support the Storage has.

She knows that the room ends – she could see the back wall – but there seems to be an infinite number of “artifacts” stored here. The term artifact, she realizes after a few days of working here, is only applicable in the loosest definition.

Delicately, she picks up a silver spoon with a pair of tongs, which she holds with rubber gloves. After twisting her wrist this way and that way, observing how it reacts to touch, or how it doesn’t, and writes it down. Standard procedure. The only other employee that works with her, Sonja, says that after a work-related incident, safety protocols were reinstated. Sonja never stated what exactly the “work-related incident” entailed, but Sasha suspects that even she doesn’t know what happened. This also implies that there weren’t such safety protocols before that incident, leaving Sasha to wonder how many people have had to “quit” before then.

Morbid as it is, it is enough to keep her working here. She’s handling things that have been touched the ineffable, and well, isn’t that exciting?

Still, it’s not quite enough to satiate her curiosity. Some of the objects she has catalogued have had… interesting properties, certainly more bite than bark – literally. Once, she threw off the curtain hiding a rugged fresco of a dog; perhaps the first indication that it wasn’t normal was that even in relative darkness, the pieces of glass that composed the fresco still glinted, especially the pieces that held the eye of the dog.

She considers herself lucky that she still has all her fingers. Yet, despite common sense and instincts of self-preservation, she couldn’t help but feel a shiver of thrill.

Sasha places the spoon down, peels a roll of labeling tape, and sticks it on its surface, writing down the case number it corresponds with and throwing it back into its original box. She’s quite proud of herself for introducing a system, as apparently there didn’t exist one before she came along.

It seems that disorganization is something that plagues the Institute. Tim says that the Archives is an even worse state of disarray and that the Head Archivist – Gertrude she remembers him telling her – has no such plans to rectify it.

Ah, Tim. He remembers her from their first encounter, and likewise. They had decided to reach a compromise and say that it was neither of their faults.

He comes down here sometimes, to deliver any “artifacts” that the Archives have collected while they collect the statements. Sonja is good company when she bothers to show up anyway. She’s been a bit lackadaisical in her duties ever since Sasha’s been hired, but she doesn’t mind pulling late-night hours to finish up. It’s soothing.

His arrival indicates that there is more work to be done, but she doesn’t mind. Although she would only admit this at gunpoint (oh, who is she kidding? She’ll not even admit it even if her life is on the line), she rather enjoys his company.

“Sash!” he announces, unceremoniously dropping whatever he was holding onto the ground. “You still here?”

She snorts, somewhat miffed that he’s using that nickname for her, and not at the fact that he recklessly handled evidence. She walks over him and picks up at the box he just dropped, and places it next to her. “You say that like my soul isn’t eternally chained to this place. Of course, I would be here. Where else would I be?”

“Well, you could be partaking in mutual self-inflicted torture next to me in the Archives,” he shrugs, and leans on the entry way. The relative light from the adjacent room lights his silhouette. “I swear, everything there is more dust than paper, and it doesn’t help that my boss is a hundred-year-old amalgamation of sweaters and grey hairs.”

“Hmm, that does sound fun, but no thank you. And don’t be too harsh on Gertrude, she’s quicker than she seems, but please do not tell me you’ve been suffering all your lonesome?”

“Unfortunately, yes, but rumor has it that another poor soul will join me in my eternal suffering.”

“If you dislike it so much, then why do you keep working here? Why not transfer to another department, or another place for that matter?”

The light in Tim’s eyes noticeably dims and the bright smile he has fades to a small, rueful grin. The space between them became quiet. Sasha fears that she had treaded into dangerous territory and she cannot take back what she just said.

“Because I can’t.”

She steps lightly towards him; he doesn’t move.

The words spill out of her mouth before she has the chance to think about them. It’s unlike her to be this way, to be clumsy. “Why can’t you?”

“You know why: to find answers.” His mouth breaks into his characteristic smile again, almost as fast as it went away. “You know, you can find some answers yourself if you transfer.”

Sasha will remember this moment. She’s not quite brave enough to ask any further questions, so instead, she matches his smile and says that he’s overstayed here and shouldn’t he be helping Gertrude? It’s getting late.

Tim laughs and says his goodbye, and Sasha is once again left alone, with his suggestion about transferring ringing in her head.

* * *

Sasha, much to her chagrin, takes his advice and applies for an internal transfer to Research after confirming that Sonja wouldn’t be alone in Storage. Her request is approved and she moves her things from the basement of the Institute to the second-floor offices. It’s slightly more entertaining here than in that dusty room; she not only has the chance to flex her library science skills, but her computer science skills as well – especially when she needs to access some hidden documents.

It’s much safer, being a Practical Researcher. She’s surrounded by other, fellow “nerds”, typing away and scrutinizing tiny Times New Roman font on out-of-print books while sipping on unsatisfying tea/coffee. There’s never enough caffeine or the person who brings them all their drinks never seems to make them correctly.

But, it’s also utterly mundane. She might even call it _boring_ and Sasha knew that it isn’t doing her any favors. Sure, hacking into security is inherently thrilling, but it doesn’t bring her to the source of these supernatural happenings.

Tim notices her disgruntlement every time he talks with her, which despite the greater distance between their departments, he puts in the effort to go up a few floors.

“C’mon Sash,” he goads, wiggling his eyebrows, “Just transfer to the Archives already. We have a new assistant – name’s Martin, I think – and he is a _joy_ to push around and you won’t be the only one dealing with my bullshit. Do you really want to be around these normies?” 

It drives her insane when he comes around. The other researchers picked up on his unwarranted use of _Sash_ and began to refer to her by the same nickname and she _hates_ it because that’s not her name, she isn’t a piece of clothing, and because whenever Tim uses it, he is the exception.

He’s also right. She isn’t happy here. She wants more.

A few months later, when she applies for another transfer to be an Archival Assistant, she reminds herself that it is not because of Tim Stoker, but as an opportunity to learn more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will never be as funny and suave as tim and it shows 
> 
> hope you guys are enjoying it as much as i am writing it. thank you so much for your gracious feedback and i hope to hear about your thoughts about this chapter


End file.
